


fall/softly

by EnigmaticSplendor



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, Keith (Voltron)-centric, M/M, klangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 13:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11806929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnigmaticSplendor/pseuds/EnigmaticSplendor
Summary: It starts with petals. A few small and rare little pink things. The kind that looked as if they could fall out of the sakura jellies he loved when he was young.Keith's not sure the cause. There's nothing for him to connect it. No even notable enough for him to stop and say ,'Ah-ha!’(It starts when they first meet, the spring is still on the chilly side but the trees still grow, the leaves still rise green and slow, too soon for flowers.)





	fall/softly

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hanahaki](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/316215) by owelette. 



> I was inspired to write this because of owlette's amazing Hanahaki Keith piece and when I looked at it for the first time I knew I had to write something based on because it just lit something up inside of my heart, you know? I hope you enjoy reading this peace like I enjoyed writing it :)

It starts with petals. A few small and rare little pink things. The kind that looked as if they could fall out of the sakura jellies he loved when he was young. 

 

Keith's not sure the cause. There's nothing for him to connect it. No even notable enough for him to stop and say ,'Ah-ha!’

 

(It starts when they first meet, the spring is still on the chilly side but the trees still grow, the leaves still rise green and slow, too soon for flowers.)

 

It's a pleasant little surprise, he saves them in a little jar, piling them up high until he needs to find another, and another. Soon he has a shelf full of them in varying colors. The first bottles are soft white little petals, going brown around the edges now, wilting with each passing day.

 

(They're dangerous dangerous Dangerous-)

 

While there aren't a lot of them there's enough to fill some small jars, make the shelf above his desk more decorative, but not enough to hurt. Not enough to take his breath away. 

 

There wasn't any danger to it he figured. They were just cute little petals. Something small and pure that he could take comfort in. Days like this he needed as much comfort as he could get.

* * *

 

The solitude is too much, the steady endless quiet of his own presence with no one around. Even in a city filled with millions of people he is so profoundly alone that it hurts to think about it.

 

(So he doesn't)

 

He fills his time with busy work. Cleans the apartment from top to bottom. Rearranges the furniture once, twice, again and again until the landlord calls him to stop,"For the love of God it's  3am."    
  
So he plays with knives. Doing tricks with his butterflies that he could do in his sleep, anything to keep his hands and mind busy.    
  
Looks up a cork board to use with his throwing knives that he hasn't even touched in years.   
  
It's enough. For now.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes they come out dark pink, almost red. Those are the days when he sees him and those bright blue eyes make his heart race. Those eyes on him really do take his breath away, make his face flush with heat. Make his knees a little weak.

 

It's nothing really. It's fine.

 

Keith knows he’d never like him back so he doesn't say anything. Doesn't make a move. 

 

He sees the way Lance flirts, all charm and charisma. With girls. Only girls. Pretty girls like Allura and Nyma. Gorgeous and model like in their style and grace. Nothing that he could compare, that he'd even want to compare to.

But sometimes he can't stop thinking about it. Thinking about how it feels to be near him, what it's like to share lunch and a laugh at the cafe. What it's like to lean on him when they go out drinking. He knows so much already, what would a little more knowledge hurt, he wonders, absently.

 

Thinks about what it would feel like to be kissed by him.

 

Decided it's better not to think at all.

* * *

 

The full flowers come later. Rare and small. He knows by then that he should be worried, that he should say something, 

 

He's always solved his own problems alone, he can't see the reason to change now for something that only affects him.

 

* * *

 

They're bigger that night, full-bodied and unforgiving with blunt little stems and thick sets of petals. It hurts for the first time. Makes him cough as if he's choking.

 

Makes him cry. 

 

There's a splatter of blood in the sink and the largest blossom yet. Soft and gorgeous, deep dark pink and spotted with blood.

 

He should probably see a doctor and tell them what's going on, say something to anyone really. But for whatever reason he doesn't. He turns on the faucet, letting a cool steady stream wash gently over the blossom. Going down the drain his blood looks more pink than red.

 

He wipes his tears away roughly and fixes a warm cup of tea to sooth his aching throat. 

 

(He wipes the blood off the counter, carefully. He doesn't think about it.)

 

* * *

 

They come more frequently after that. Relentlessly beautiful. Some days they come out a multitude of tiny bulbs that leave him hacking like a cat.    
  
Others they come few and huge, fleshy petals that make him heave into the nearest container he can find, dark red in way that makes him light headed.    
  
There's no certainty in anything anymore, he realizes bleakly. He has no more guarantees on his continued peace, not when his heart is an untended garden.    
  
(Not when his home is a would be tomb.)

 

* * *

 

The prettiest ones come when it's almost too late, wine dark petals dripping with his own blood, making him fold over the sink and wretch until there's nothing left.

 

(It hurts less than watching him kiss her did. the dim light of the karaoke club had done nothing to obscure the flirty look in his eyes, to hide the sweet press of lips from—)

 

He realizes, in a distant way, that he could really die from this. That this could be it for him.

 

He goes to sleep.

* * *

 

 

What is he supposed to say in this position, sitting quietly under the doctor's scrutinizing gaze. His fingers itch to move, anxiety flooding through him, making him clench and unclench his fists.

 

“—Mr. Kogane?” The doctor starts up again. He must not have been paying attention but he can't really pay anymore attention now when he's still so riled up. 

 

“—This is a very advanced case—”

 

“—medical intervention—?”

“—minimally invasive—”

 

“You don't have much time left to decide.” Keith stares down at his shaking hands. Some of the flowers are at home now, pressed flat into long forgotten textbooks, the rest still in tiny little jars along the shelf…

 

The doctor gives him a sad little smile. Why don't you sleep in it and call back in tomorrow? We can make arrangements for you then.”

 

* * *

 

Can you just do that? Cut a love right out of your skin? Pull it straight from your heart and discard it like it was never there? 

 

Even with the pain of it all he can't imagine just getting rid of it like it was nothing. What a waste of time all that suffering would have been, all that heartache. Just to wake up one day and find it gone.

 

It's almost insulting to think about. He's not sure if the feeling comes from shame from waiting so long or something else, something he doesn't even want to start thinking of.

* * *

 

He doesn't call back.

 

* * *

 

His apartment is filled with the jars now. His inbox is filled with voicemails from his Doctor.

 

He calls out sick. 

 

Keith isn't sure if he's getting worse or not. They're all big and hurt equally coming out, but they're getting more beautiful. Less bloody. Maybe he's improving.

 

Maybe—

 

* * *

 

He shouldn't drink, the burn going down is twice as bad when he's like this but he can't find the sense to stop. Some pains cancel out greater pains. Some sadness cancels a greater sadness. 

  
  
If he can numb himself from his thoughts. His pain. He might just make it through tonight without making a fool of himself. 

  
  
At some point in the night Lance takes a seat beside him chatting him up about how boring the whole event is and, "Hey how many drinks have you had?" 

  
  
  
Why would he actually count how many? He thinks but doesn't say, tries to say but the words get confused somewhere between his mouth and his brain so he doesn't say anything. 

  
  
Maybe he should have been keeping count, he'll think to himself later as Lance practically carries him out of the bar.

  
  
"I never pegged you as a heavy drinker," he laughs," you can't even walk straight."

  
  
Keith shrugs, or least thinks he does, most of his bodyweight is pressed up against Lance's side so he's not sure if the gesture even registers. 

 

“I don't usually…” He mumbles out. That was supposed to stay in his head, he's not sure why his mouth betrayed him this time. 

 

“S’alright everyone has their moments…” He's so warm and constant beside him. This moment is like a glance into some other forever; someone else's happy ending. 

 

“Why'd it have to be you…” His voice is quiet enough that it might have just been a thought, but Lance stops short, almost toppling them both. 

 

He can't hear it, can't feel it, but his heart is racing,”What's that's supposed to mean, mullet?” He teases.

 

Keith doesn't answer.

 

(When he coughs petals fly out.)

* * *

 

The Moon's high in the sky when there's a knock at his front door. Even his brother wouldn't come in this late so he's not sure who it could be. He thinks about ignoring them, just leaving them to stand right outside till they take the hint.

 

But the knocking doesn't stop, I gets more urgent. Stops, a pause, then starts up again. He throws himself out of bed with a groan, dragging himself to the front door with what little energy he can muster. 

 

It’s unclear what he’s expecting when he fumbles the door open but it’s certainly not Lance. Least of all like this, eyes rimmed red, shaking just enough for Keith’s eyes to pick up on.

 

“Wha-” - _ t are you doing here? _

 

“Who are they for?” His voice cracks in the middle revealing more of his feelings than he meant to.

 

“The flowers,” he starts again, more steady this time,“ who are they for?”

 

Keith’s blood runs cold, he’d seen. Of course he’d seen, his whole apartment was some kind of shrine to his unrequited love, flowers everywhere, everywhere. 

 

Of course. 

 

“I,” He starts, stops, glares, “I don’t have to tell you anything.” 

 

Lance laughs, part humor all pain, punched out. He laughs and laughs until they give way to sobs that shake him to his core,”Please…” he says softly, voice as steady as he can force it to be,  ”...please…” 

 

The scent of flowers rushes out between them and suddenly everything makes sense. The harsh light of the hallway lays it out plain as day and he feels like a fool, feels such immeasurable relief that he can’t even put it into words. 

 

He reaches out, taking him in by the shirt collar, hands shaking even as he pulls him close. Keith can’t understand what he’s doing, what they must be thinking, but the door closes behind them, leaving them in the comforting darkness of the night.

 

The distance between closes as if it was never there, as if there’d never been a moment but this one, stretching out into eternity, taking their breathe away. The kiss is like water, soothing every pain in his raw throat, every ache is his chest. 

 

(He has never known a softness like this before...)

 

Maybe it's a dream, something too soft to be real. To desperately wanted to be true. But for now he is in his arms; held, and all the more beautiful for it. 

 

(The night comes up and swallows them whole.) 

* * *

 

There's two flowers in the bowl when he wakes up, one a deep dark red, the other a soft pale blue, both equal in size and beauty.    
  


Something small and sharp unsettles in his chest, a sibling of heartache but gentler, an ache he never realized he could wish for.    
  


"I thought you'd never want me back." Lance says, voice almost a whisper. Standing in the bedroom doorway with the same clothes from last night and the weak light of the early day. 

  
Still too much night to be morning, still too dark for the sun to show her gorgeous face. 

  
Keith doesn't know how to answer the unspoken question that hangs between them. To speak at all even. So he closes the distance between them, still drunk on the darkness, in the freedom of the night. 

  
He kisses him. Kisses him deep and pure and endless, without the scent of flowers filling his head, only the fresh clean smell of his cologne and warmth of his embrace. 

  
They suffered so long in this shared darkness, in this floral winter, preying on their shared loneliness. they deserve this reprieve at the very least. 

  
Lance hold him like he's afraid he'll fade away, a dream, hands shaking with something close to fear. It makes Keith want to cry, want to laugh, want to scream out in frustration.

  
But this moment is enough to soothe him back to something like contentment. 

  
Like all nights do, all loneliness comes to an end. The sun will rise. The sun will rise and all of the tears and pains will fade, will give way to something soft and beautiful that they can build together.   
  
  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

> When I was writing this I kept on getting inspired by sad love songs and emotional art films. I kept thinking,"How do I make this sound like a moody French art film?" I hope I succeeded! Please let me know how you liked it <3


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